Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake (17 page)

“We shall lower the line of the neck to show you off, the waist as well. You hide yourself among these flounces and frill—like so many other Englishwomen,” Madame Hebert spat the last words out as if they had a foul taste. “You need the French design. The French, they celebrate the woman’s shape!”

Callie blushed at the dressmaker’s bold speech, but she was tempted by it, nonetheless. Meeting the little Frenchwoman’s gaze, she said, “All right. Yes.”

Mariana and Juliana let out little exclamations of delight.

Madame Hebert nodded, all business. “Valerie,” she said sharply, calling to her assistant, “take Lady Calpurnia’s measurements. She will have the aethereal blue satin. She will also need a cloak.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

The modiste did not look at Callie, instead pushing forward as though she hadn’t spoken. “The midnight satin. We shall line it with chinchilla. And then the aethereal comes off the shelf. The fabric belongs only to this lady.”

At the words, the girls around the shop tittered. Callie looked to Mariana in confusion. Her sister whispered, “Madame Hebert only removes fabric from sale when she constructs a gown without the help of her staff! Callie! How exciting!”

Callie swallowed audibly. What had she gotten herself into?

Madame Hebert turned back to Callie. “Three weeks.”

She nodded in understanding. “And Juliana’s?”

“The same. We shall send them to her as they are finished.”

“She will need the gold evening gown on Wednesday,” Mariana said, “for the opera.”

Juliana, who had been idly stroking a lavender muslin that was to become one of her new walking dresses, looked up in surprise.

“She must be at the opera on Wednesday, Callie,” Mariana repeated, then said to Juliana, “You will come with us, of course.”

Of course, Mariana was right. Wednesday was opening night at the Theatre Royal and the perfect event at which to launch Juliana into society. She would be introduced as delicately as possible, only having to interact with the ton before and after the opera, and during its intermission.

Callie nodded her agreement. “Wednesday is, of course, the perfect day.”

The modiste, who had remained quiet through the conversation, finally spoke. “It is Monday, my ladies. I can finish the gown for Wednesday, but not without having my girls work through the night.” The meaning was clear.

Callie smiled. Ralston had put her in charge. And he had said money was no object. “Her brother is the Marquess of Ralston. I am certain he will approve the charge.”

Madame Hebert did not press the issue and sharply ordered two of her girls to begin the dress immediately.

Once outside, the trio began a whirlwind tour of the shops of Bond Street and beyond. After visiting the milliner, they made their way down a small, narrow street, and Juliana stopped to gaze through a bookshop window. Turning back to her companions, she said, “Would you mind terribly if we went in? I should like to purchase something for my brothers. To thank them for their kindness.”

“What an excellent idea!” Never one to avoid a bookseller, Callie opened the door with a wide smile, motioning for Juliana to enter ahead of her.

The tinkling of a small bell welcomed the young women into the shop and alerted its proprietor to their presence. With a polite nod, he quickly returned to his work, and Callie and Mariana moved to browse the latest novels, leaving Juliana to consider an appropriate gift for her brothers.

The younger girl had never considered how difficult it might be to choose the perfect gift for Ralston and St. John—something that spoke to their unique interests and would hold additional meaning as the first gift they received from their new, unexpected sister.

After a quarter of an hour of browsing, Juliana had finally selected a large book of illustrations of Pompeii for Nick, hoping that his love of the ancient world would make it the perfect gift.

Ralston, however, presented a challenge. She knew so little of him, aside from the long hours he spent at his piano late at night. Moving through the shop, Juliana ran her fingers along the spines of large, leather-bound tomes, wondering what might be the right choice for her eldest brother.

Finally, she paused, lingering over a German volume on Mozart, nibbling on her lower lip as she considered the book.

“If one is looking for a biography of Mozart, there is none better than that. Niemetschek knew the maestro personally.”

Juliana started, spinning toward the voice.

Scant inches away, stood the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

He was tall and broad, with eyes the color of honey warmed in the sun. The late-afternoon light that streamed into the bookshop played on his golden curls and underscored the perfect lines of his straight nose and strong jaw.

“I—” She stopped, her mind racing as she attempted to remember the rules of conduct for such a situation. Callie and she had never discussed proper conduct when approached by an angel in regard to musical biographies. Certainly it would not be inappropriate to thank him. Would it? “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I hope you will enjoy it.”

“Oh, it is not for me. It is a gift. For my brother.”

“Ah, well then I hope he will enjoy it.” He paused, and they stared at each other for a long moment.

Juliana grew nervous in the silence, eventually saying, “I am sorry, sir. I am fairly certain that we are not allowed to converse.”

He gave her a small, crooked smile, sending a wave of warmth through her. “Only fairly certain?”

“Almost positive. I am new to London and your rules, but I seem to remember something about our needing to be introduced.” Her blue eyes flashed.

“That is a pity. What do you think will happen if we were discovered? Discussing books in a public place by light of day?”

The scandal in his tone drew a little laugh from her. “One never knows. The earth might well swallow us whole for such a dangerous activity.”

“Well, I would hate to place a lady in such imminent danger. And so, I will take my leave, and hope that someday we will have cause for proper introductions.”

For a fleeting moment, she considered calling Callie or Mariana over to make the introductions, but she felt certain that kind of thing was not done. Instead, she blinked up at the golden man. “I shall hope the same.”

He bowed low then, and was gone, the only sign that he had been there at all the faint tinkling of the bell above the bookshop’s door announcing his exit.

Unable to stop herself, Juliana moved to the window, watching him as he strode down the street.

“Juliana?” Callie spoke from nearby. “Have you selected your books?”

Turning with a smile, Juliana nodded. “I have. Do you think that Gabriel will enjoy a biography on Mozart?”

Callie considered the title. “I think that is a fine choice.”

Juliana took a deep breath, pleased. “Tell me, do you know that man?”

Mari followed the direction of Juliana’s gaze, taking in the tall, golden man moving quickly away from the shop. Wrinkling her nose, she looked back at Juliana and said, “Why?”

“No reason,” Juliana hedged, “He is…familiar.”

Mari shook her head. “I doubt you know him. I can’t imagine his even deigning to visit Italy, let alone actually speak to someone Italian.”

“Mari…” Callie said, caution in her tone.

“But, who is he?” Juliana pressed.

Callie waved one hand dismissively, heading for the sales counter. “The Duke of Leighton.”

“He is a duke?” Juliana asked in surprise.

“Yes,” Mari nodded, guiding her friend to the front of the bookshop. “And a thoroughly awful one. Considers anyone with a lesser title to be entirely beneath him. Which doesn’t leave him many equals.”

“Mariana! Must you insist on gossiping in public?”

“Oh, come, Callie. Admit that you cannot suffer Leighton.”

“Well, of course not,” Callie said in a low voice. “No one can. I do try not to announce my distaste to entire book-shops, however.”

Juliana considered their conversation. He hadn’t seemed at all distasteful. But, then, he hadn’t known who she was. Certainly if he had discovered she was a merchant’s daughter…

“Are there many like him? Many who will discount me immediately, simply because of my birth?”

Mariana and Callie exchanged a brief glance at the question before Callie waved a hand in the air, and said, “If there are, they are not worth the effort. There are plenty who will adore you. Never fear.”

“Indeed,” Mari added with a smile. “And do not forget that I am soon to be a duchess myself. And then…hang them all!”

“I should not like them to be killed,” Juliana said, worriedly.

The other women looked confused for a brief moment before Callie laughed, understanding that Mariana’s words had been lost in translation. “It is an expression, Juliana. No one shall be hanged. It simply means that Mariana will not care about them.”

Understanding dawned. “Ah! Capisco. I understand! Si. Hang them!”

The three women all laughed together and Juliana paid for her brothers’ gifts. After a footman had been charged to deliver their wrapped packages to the carriage, she turned a bright smile on the other women. “Where shall we go next?”

Mariana smiled broadly and announced, “The glover, of course. A woman cannot very well make her debut without opera gloves, can she?”

Callie stood at the edge of the Rivington box at the Theatre Royal, unable to contain her satisfied smile as she scanned the rest of the audience, noting the scores of opera glasses pointed in the direction of Miss Juliana Fiori.

If the attention were any indication, title or no, daughter of a fallen marchioness or no, Juliana would make a remarkable debut.

The opera had not even begun and, already, the box was mobbed with visitors, from pillars of the ton who came, ostensibly, to visit with the dowager duchess, and, as such, happened to meet the lovely young Juliana, to young men of society who were less discreet about the reason for their visit to the box—arriving and promptly falling over themselves for an introduction.

The evening could not have been more perfectly orchestrated, and Callie was taking full responsibility for its success.

Juliana had arrived at opening night in the Allendale carriage and, to Callie’s delight, the young woman had alighted with grace and aplomb, as though being set on display for the judgment of London’s aristocracy were the most natural thing in the world. Once inside the theatre, Juliana had removed her cloak to reveal her stunning satin evening dress, which had been delivered to Ralston House in perfect condition that morning; Madame Hebert had outdone herself on the gown, which was shot through with gold threads and sure to be the envy of every other woman in the house.

And then she had been escorted—on this, the most important night of the London theatrical season—to the Duke of Rivington’s personal box, where she was to be the personal guest of the dowager duchess, the future duchess, and the duke himself. For this evening, the Allendale box would stand empty; the Earl and Dowager Countess of Allendale and Callie would view the opera from the Rivington box—showing the world that Juliana was accepted by two of the most powerful families in Britain.

And, as if all that weren’t enough, Ralston and St. John had arrived—giving the matchmaking mamas of the ton even more gossip to feed upon. The elusive twin brothers were rarely seen at such blatantly social events as this one, and even more rarely seen together. Callie turned her attention to them, standing sentry, side by side, several feet behind their sister, thoroughly intimidating in their identical height and handsomeness.

Callie’s pulse quickened as she studied Ralston. He was impeccably dressed, forgoing the brilliant waistcoats preferred by the dandies of the ton in favor of perfectly tailored black breeches and dress coat over a classic white waistcoat without a single crease. His cravat was perfectly starched, and his boots gleamed, as though he had arrived via some magical route other than London’s muddy streets. He was flawless. That is, until one noted the tightly coiled tension in his square shoulders, the fisted hands at his sides, the tiny muscle that flexed in his jaw as he watched his sister navigate her way through the intricate dance of London’s social scene. It was clear that he was prepared to do battle to ensure his sister’s acceptance this evening.

As though sensing her attention, Ralston turned his head to look at her. She inhaled sharply as their gazes collided, trapped by his glittering blue eyes, intent and unreadable. He tipped his head, almost imperceptibly. She understood the meaning implicitly. Thank you.

She mirrored the action.

Not trusting herself to disguise her emotions, she turned back to stare unseeingly at the crowd building in the theatre, impatient for the opera to begin and distract her from his presence in the box.

The performance should have begun a half an hour earlier, but, sadly, society rarely attended the Theatre Royal for the opera…most certainly not on the opening night of the season. No, one attended the opera to see and be seen, and the owners of the theatre knew well how to keep their patrons happy.

Callie returned her gaze to Juliana, watching with pride as she spoke gracefully to the dowager duchess and, in full view of the entirety of London society, made the older woman laugh. Perfect.

“You appear rather proud of yourself.”

A flutter of excitement coursed through her at the rich, amused voice so close to her ear. Willing herself to be calm, she met Ralston’s blue eyes, and said, “Indeed, I am, my lord. Your sister is doing exceedingly well, don’t you think?”

“I do. The evening could not have been more perfectly arranged.”

“It was Mariana’s idea to use Rivington’s box,” Callie pointed out. “Our sisters seem to have become fast friends.”

“Due, in large part, to your intervention, I imagine.”

Callie dipped her head in silent acknowledgment.

“Very well done.”

She quashed an odd desire to preen at the praise as the theatre’s chimes rang, signaling the beginning of the performance. On cue, the visitors took their leave, and Ralston offered Callie his arm. “May I accompany you to your chair, Lady Calpurnia?”

Callie slid her hand along his arm, accepting his escort, attempting to ignore the sizzle of awareness that shot through her as they touched. It was the first time they had seen each other since the evening in the tavern. In the carriage. The first time they had touched since she had been in his embrace.

Once she was seated beside Benedick, Ralston claimed the seat next to her, his nearness overwhelming her senses. She was enveloped by his scent, a combination of sandal-wood and lemon and something thoroughly male. She resisted the temptation to lean toward him and breathe deeply. That certainly wouldn’t do.

She searched for a conversation that would distract her from his nearness. “Do you enjoy the opera, my lord?”

“Not particularly.” His words were laced with indifference.

“I am surprised to hear that,” she said, “I was under the impression that you enjoyed music. After all, you have a pianoforte—” She stopped short, darting a quick glance around the box to determine if anyone were listening to their conversation. She couldn’t well discuss his pianoforte in mixed company.

He raised an eyebrow at her statement, saying dryly, “Indeed I do, Lady Calpurnia.”

The man was taunting her. She would not rise to it. “Well, of course everyone has a pianoforte these days.” She pressed on, refusing to look at him, instead babbling, “I have heard that the performance tonight is unparalleled. The Barber of Seville is a lovely opera. I am particularly fond of Rossini. And I have heard that the singer portraying Rosina is brilliantly talented. I cannot remember her name…Miss…” she trailed off, comforted that they were on safer conversational ground.

“Kritikos. Nastasia Kritikos,” he provided.

The words washed over her. Nastasia. Understanding dawned.

I had not wanted to make this more difficult than it had to be, Nastasia.

Dear Lord. The opera singer was his mistress. She looked up at him, meeting his calm, unreadable gaze.

“Oh,” she said almost inaudibly, unable to contain the syllable.

He remained silent.

What did you expect him to do? Announce to all within hearing that the mezzo-soprano was his mistress? The same mistress for whom he mistook you on the evening you arrived indelicately in his bedchamber?

No, it was for the best that he not pursue the conversation, she decided. Cheeks aflame, she leaned forward in her chair and looked over the edge of the box, wondering if she would survive an escape attempt over the side. Likely not, she thought with a sigh. She turned back, meeting his now-amused gaze. He was enjoying her embarrassment!

“Too far to jump, I should think,” he said conspiratorially.

He was infuriating.

Luckily, she was saved from having to respond by the rising curtain. She turned her attention resolutely to the stage, willing herself to stop thinking of Ralston.

Of course, that was impossible, particularly when the opera began in earnest, and Nastasia Kritikos appeared. The Greek singer played Rosina, the beautiful woman upon whom the entire plot of mistaken identity and love at first sight hinged, and she was the perfect choice for the role, all unparalleled buxom beauty. Callie could not stop imagining the glamorous woman in Ralston’s arms, could not shake the vision of his dark hands on her pale, flawless skin, could not staunch the vicious envy that burned deep within as she cataloged the actress’s remarkable attributes against her own.

As if the singer’s incredible beauty were not enough, it appeared that she also had the most magnificent voice to grace the stage—likely ever.

There was no way a man could resist this paragon of womanhood.

The positioning of the Rivington box was such that audience members seated there could see into the wings of the theatre and, at several points, Callie was certain that Nastasia Kritikos was looking at Ralston, as though waiting for him to return her attention. Was it possible they had resumed their acquaintance? Callie closed her eyes against the thought, only to open them and steal a glance at Ralston. She had to give him credit for discretion; his concentration did not appear to waver from the stage.

When Nastasia’s aria in the first act began, however, he—along with the rest of the audience—was rapt with attention. Callie could not help but see the irony in the words of the song: Yes, Lindoro shall be mine! I’ve sworn it! I’ll succeed! If I am thwarted I can be a viper! I can play a hundred tricks to get my way.

“I can just imagine what a viper she can be,” Callie muttered under her breath, as the aria stopped the show, sending the entire theatre to its feet, calling, “Brava! Bravissima!”

It was decided. Callie would never again enjoy the opera.

As the first act ended and the curtain fell, signaling the performance’s intermission, Callie sighed, wishing she were anywhere else and wondering how difficult it would be to escape before the second act tortured her further.

Juliana’s laughter sounded behind her, and Callie realized she could not leave. She had promised to bring Ralston’s sister out successfully, and she would do just that.

Steeling herself, she stood, eager to interject herself into a conversation that did not involve Ralston, and nearly collided with Baron Oxford, who had appeared inside the box almost immediately upon the close of the first act.

Perfectly manicured, the handsome dandy offered one of his trademark smiles to the box at large before settling his gaze on Callie. As he moved toward her, she took in his rich green topcoat, a lovely contrast to his shimmering satin waistcoat of aubergine. She immediately noticed that his heels and the tip of his walking stick once more matched his waistcoat, and she wondered if he had boots and canes in every color. The idea was so ridiculous; she couldn’t help the curving of her lips.

“My lord,” she said, hiding her face with a demure curtsy as he bowed low over her hand, “it is a pleasure to see you.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine.” The words, spoken slightly too close, sent a wave of color to Callie’s cheeks as she took a deliberate half step backward. He continued. “I took the liberty of ordering champagne.” He paused, indicating a footman nearby who held a tray of champagne coupes. “For you…and for the rest of your party.”

Callie cocked her head slightly at his words. Surely she had misunderstood his emphasis. “Thank you, my lord.” She watched as the footman passed the champagne through the box, uncertain of how to proceed. “Are you enjoying the performance?”

“Indeed. I am particularly impressed with Miss Kritikos’s performance, she is—quite—something.” Oxford said with a broad grin in the direction of the stage that Callie found not altogether pleasant. He reached for a glass of champagne and held it out to her. When she took it, he ran a finger over the back of her hand and leaned close, deepening his voice to a flirtatious whisper. “Of course, I am enjoying the intermission immensely as well.”

This time, she was certain that he was inebriated. He had to be. Callie removed her hand from the inappropriate touch and considered giving the Baron a thorough set down. Certainly that would be the proper course of action, but she could not deny a certain amount of pleasure that, even as she suffered through an evening of Ralston’s mistress endearing herself to the entire ton, she was receiving some attention of her own. She cast a sidelong glance toward Ralston, who was in conversation with his brother. He met her eyes and lifted his champagne in a silent salute. She snapped her head back around to Oxford and offered him a bright smile. “I, too, am enjoying intermission, my lord.”

“Excellent.” He took a deep drink from his glass, then said, his words slightly slurred, “Do you care for art?”

Slightly taken aback by his question, Callie said, “I—Well, yes, my lord.”

Oxford traded his empty glass for a full one, and said, “I should like to escort you to the Royal Art Exhibition next week.”

Resisting the urge to question the Baron’s motives, Callie realized there was no easy way to escape this invitation. Instead, she said, “That would be lovely, my lord.”

“What would be lovely?” The lazy drawl indicated the arrival of Ralston. Callie refused to rise to his bait.

Oxford, however, seemed more than eager to share their conversation with the marquess. “I shall be escorting Lady Calpurnia to the Royal Art Exhibition next week,” he said, and Callie couldn’t help noticing the boastfulness in his tone.

“Is that so?” Ralston said.

He didn’t have to sound so disbelieving. “Indeed, it is, my lord. I am eager to see this year’s exhibition.” She placed a hand lightly on Oxford’s sleeve. “I shall be lucky to have such an escort.”